As though from far away
by Elyzia
Summary: Ten years have passed since the Secret Garden was discovered, and during that time, Mary Lennox has had to deal with the horrors of war, and the pain of loss. Slowly, she sinks into despair and finally, to madness. But is all lost forever? Set during WW1.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

'Poor lass...... they say she is quite mad.'

Mrs Anna Salisbury shook her head woefully, as she stood and watched the lithe figure of the young woman, striding free and confident over the moor. She sighed deeply, and turned to her companion, who was standing beside her.

Her companion - Maggie Smith, a middle aged and rather rotund woman, squinted in the direction of the young woman.

'Its hard t' tell from here, but it looks as though she's singing to herself.' Maggie muttered. 'I heard stories in the village – but I was yet to see her until today.'

'Well, she's here most days, that she is. Wandering through the moor, often singing. Picking flowers sometimes.' Mrs Salisbury shook her head. 'It was a terrible business, Maggie, what, with the Uncle passing away – that'd be Lord Craven, mind, god rest his soul. Died some three years back, and ever since then, nothing has been th' same at th' Manor. Least of all wi' Miss Mary Lennox.'

Her friend nodded, leaning in closer. 'I heard talk in th' village that Lord Craven had a son?'

'Aye, that would be young Master Colin. He was summoned t' the front, back in '15.'

Maggie shook her head once again, and shuddered before adding 'How awful.

'Missing in action.' Anna whispered, drawing out the words, with practised ease.

'Oh!' Maggie gasped, her hand covering her mouth.'How tragic for th' family!'

Anna Salisbury nodded solemnly. 'They say that was what finally did it. Poor Mr Craven. First losing his wife, and then his only son..... They say it was too much for the poor man t' take. An th' lass.... well.....' she gestured towards the form of the young woman in the distance. 'You can plainly see th' effect it had on her, although there was talk that she had begun to turn well before that.'

* * *

The young woman strode through the heather, sure and confident. She moved quickly, her feet sure and steady, her muscles wiry with use. Her long hair fell well past her shoulders, in a cascade of dark brown, and it blew out behind her in loose tendrils as she walked. She sung a long forgotten song as she moved through the heather, in a language not one of the dwellers on Thwaite moor would recognise.

_"Asato ma sad gamaya.  
Tamaso ma jyotir gamaya.  
Mrtyor ma amrtam gamaya."_

Her voice was low, and sweet and pleasant, the song carrying in the breeze. Memories stirred in her mind, as she sung, pushing their way to the surface. She felt tears begin to form, and angrily brought a hand up to brush them away. An image briefly flashed through her mind's eye, as it had done many times before – a young woman standing on the platform of the train station, with an older man beside her – the two of them waving goodbye to the young men on the train.

She closed her eyes, seeing a pair of agate grey eyes framed with dark lashes, and then another, of vivid blue that ache with sadness.

_'Don't go, Dickon. Please say you won't go.'_

_'I have t' go Mary, you know that. Tha' knows what will happen if I don't.'_

_His voice is gentle. The feel of his hands on hers, they are warm, strong. Tears fill her eyes. _

_'You have to come back.....I ..... I couldn't bear it if......' she cannot finish. Her words dry up in her mouth, and she feels tears begin to form. She swallows hastily, not wanting to appear weak, fragile. She must be strong. She has to be strong for both of them. _

The image faded from her mind, as it always did, leaving the cold cruel reality. The moor, stretching out in front of her, bleak and barren - as it did every day she walked upon it.

'You said you would never leave me.' she said softly to herself, feeling tears spill down onto her cheeks. 'You said you and I would be together, always...... Oh Dickon! why did you have to leave me?'

* * *

**It's been a while since I've written anything, and the inspiration for this story came over me today as I was walking home. Summer has finally arrived here, and everything is teeming with life and colour. I suddenly had this image, in my mind's eye, of Mary leading a solitary life, spending her days wandering the moor, as though searching for something. Thus, the beginning of this story was born.**

**Below is a translation of the lyrics of the song featured in this chapter:**

_Lead me from the unreal to the Real.  
Lead me from darkness unto Light.  
Lead me from death to Immortality_


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to all of you who read and reviewed the first chapter of _'As though from far away'_. Your thoughts and suggestions are much appreciated - a review can often make my day! **

**For a while, I wanted to write a SG fanfic that was a bit 'darker' than what I had previously published. I am hoping to delve deeper into human nature, and the consequences of decisions, in this story. **

**For this story, I don't intend the narrative to flow chronologically, so it may seem to jump around from place to place. Let me know what you think! hopefully it will all come together eventually. **

**Set during WW1 - which was waged from June 1914- November 1918.**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Humming lightly under her breath, she pushed open the door to her room.

She dimly remembered a time when the room had belonged to her aunt, when she had roamed there as a child. Tangled and overgrown it had been then, ivy penetrating through the stone walls. The room was now her sanctuary. She could not remember exactly when she had begun to dwell there.

The floor of the room was littered with papers, dirty dishes and candle stubs. She had not taken kindly to the maids who had tried to bring order to the chaos. It was her space, and hers alone.

She would often fall asleep on the floor, and awake to find the door ajar and a tray containing a warm meal placed outside. Dimly she would eat, vaguely recalling a time when she dined surrounded by others – by Colin, and her uncle.

The walk that afternoon had brought back disturbing memories. Swallows had swooped in the sky as she walked, and she had tried to drown out the thoughts by singing. She had found herself watching the bird as it circled and dived, remembering how the form of it had been immortalised on his forearm '_so I will return home to you again_' he had announced to her with an uncanny solemnity in his voice.

She sat down on the floor, barely noticing her dirty skirts bringing up a cloud of dust. The pounding in her head had begun, and today it was worse than usual.

Headaches were nothing new to her though, for she had them almost daily. She reached into her pocket of her gown, searching for the small key that lay within, panicking for a moment when she couldn't find it then feeling relief flood over her when her fingers found the smooth metal. With her other hand she reached behind her, feeling under her bed for the tin box that lay there. When she had it in front of her, she gently inserted the key and turned it, listening to the familiar sound of the hinges grind. At length, the lid sprang open, revealing numerous papers and photographs. All of her most treasured possessions.

A well worn letter sat on top of the pile and she took it now in her hands, her eyes skimming the contents.

_'- rain again today, ceaseless as ever. I write this to you hunched in the mud with my jacket over my shoulders. The rain seems to dominate our very existence here. I find myself missing the queerest things – those which I took for granted, I suppose. I miss the colour green, of all things, as all here is brown and black. Everything here is -'_

She put the letter down, and removed a photograph. The sepia tone of the photograph could not disguise the pale face of a young soldier who stared back at her, his lashes dark, his eyes serious.

_The battle of the Somme _– the words flicked briefly through her mind, sending a cold shudder through her body.

'You were only eighteen.... so young.' she whispered, before kissing it and gently placing it back in the box, her eyes brimming with tears. She glanced briefly at the other letters, written by a rather different hand. The hand that wrote these was rough, the writing reflecting the writer. As always, she reached to pick it up, to open it and read it, only to find that she was unable to do so. Her fingertips briefly traced over the edge of the paper, then she drew her hand away. Not yet.

Another well-worn photograph caught her attention. A tall young man, dressed in service uniform. He wore a coat that came down midway to his thighs, buckled tight. His boots tucked into his trousers. He stood tall and smiled slightly. An image floated to the surface of her mind of the same young man, but instead of holding a rifle, he had been holding a garden fork. She turned the photograph over in her hands, her eyes passing over the faded inscription on the back.

_Not a pretty picture, but thought you might like it. D.S_

Under the inscription was written the date.

_June, 1916. _

1916. The year of the Battle of the Somme. When they had -

'Miss Lennox?' a muffled knock on the door broke her attention. Hastily, she gathered up the letters and photographs into the box, and pushed it back under her bed.

A moment later she replied. 'Yes?'

The door was slowly pushed open by a young woman with red hair, dressed in the starched white garb of the servants at Misslethwaite. Mary felt her heart sink with disappointment Agnes, as always, Agnes. She entered, carrying a tray in front of her, and the smells of the dinner that was contained within it rose up to greet her. Meat stew most likely, perhaps a muffin or two.... her stomach churned with nausea.

As always, the young woman looked slightly flustered upon entering, her eyes briefly taking in the mess of papers, half burnt candles, and clumps of dirty linen that lay scattered about the room. Mary stared at her, her eyes briefly catching those of the red haired girl, and found herself inwardly pleased to find the girls eyes suddenly avoiding her own and a blush grow upon her cheeks.

'The master has sent me up some dinner for you, and your medicine, Miss.' Agnes said hurriedly, not moving forward.

'Tell Dr Craven that I am not hungry tonight.' she said quietly. 'But you can leave the medicine. Put it down by the door.'

Agnes bobbed a curtsey. 'Yes Miss. But if I may..... Dr Craven said that you must eat your dinner if you are to keep up your strength.' she paused, before adding. 'You didn't eat it last night, either.'

Agnes tripped up over her words, and her blush became darker. Mary noticed Agnes's eyes then, flicking briefly to her exposed forearms, and to the numerous scars that lay there. The day had been a warm one. Hastily, she pulled the sleeves of her dress down. Her head began to pound in earnest.

'If that would be all Agnes, I would appreciate it if you would leave me alone now. I do not like being interrupted.'

'Yes Miss, of course.' Agnes stepped back until she was standing in the doorway. She paused for a moment, and in that moment Mary saw the pity that lay in the girl's eyes – as it did with everyone who knew her – who knew what had happened.

She waited until she heard the click of the door as it closed and Agnes's footsteps echoing down the corridor before she made her way to the door to retrieve the small bottle that the young woman had left for her. She greedily snapped it up, feeling her head pounding worse than before. The liquid within glinted in the remaining sunlight, resembling the waves of a far off shore. How she longed to be there again! To feel the salt on her tongue, the calm water lapping against her legs..... his warm hands on the cool flesh of her bare skin.

She pressed her lips to the opening of the bottle and took a deep long drink of the bitter liquid, grimacing slightly as it slid down her throat as though it were poison. The effects were almost immediate. A sense of calm stole over her, followed by a feeling of deep drowsiness. The pounding of her headache subsided, as though being washed away by the tide coming in. She leant back against the bed they had shared together more than once, her mind still dwelling on the young soldier in the photograph. The draught seemed to bring her nearer to him, and she sank deep into her subconscious.

To March 1916, when it had all begun.


	3. Chapter 3

**Now that I'm on holiday, it's easier to keep these updates more frequent, which is what I prefer as I really do hate to keep people waiting! **

**Just a note - as I have said before, this story is quite a bit 'darker' than previous stories I have published here. If you don't like stuff like this, then don't read it! if you do, then fantastic. In the line of work I'm in, I see stuff like this all the time, so I suppose I've become used to it, or even a little desensitised? anyway, you have been warned!**

**This story jumps around a bit in time. The opening scene is set in March, 1916. The 'present' scenes, Autumn, 1918. I hope that makes sense!  
**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Soft fingers caress her skin, sending shivers of anticipation through her body. She can feel them lightly skimming down her bare arms, slowly, sensuously, as though he is trying to memorise every part of her. The idea pleases her and she smiles. She hopes that her face hasn't given away how she is feeling.

'You see, I told you I was cold.'

He does not say anything, merely shrugs off the light jacket he wears over his shirt, and places it over her shoulders.

'Tha' should warm you up a bit.'

The accent is still broad, still Yorkshire, but now it has become softer as he murmurs his words. She pulls the jacket tightly around her shoulders, inhaling his scent. It is still warm from him.

'Thanks.' she replies.

They continue to walk towards Misselthwaite. Talk turns, naturally, to the most pressing matter at hand – that which occupies the thoughts and fears of everyone they know.

'I hear the battle of Verdun is still raging.' He shakes his head sadly. 'Many of the young lads are thinkin' of enlisting. Robbie and John just left yesterday.'

She wishes she could grip his hand in hers and never let him go.

'I didn't realise young men were leaving from Thwaite to join.' Suddenly, the war seemed closer, more ominous. The night air chilled her, but the greater chill came from the unsettling feeling she felt in her heart. 'But..... that doesn't mean that you will go, does it Dickon?' she hopes to keep her voice casual.

'I don't know.' he sighs, not meeting her gaze.

She remembers a poster she has seen recently in the village _'Be ready! Join now!'_ she shudders.

They enter the manor, and she shuts the door firmly behind them. It is dark, and quiet. Her Uncle is visiting Colin in London, and the servants are busy. She imagines them now, gathered around a tankard of ale in the servant's kitchen, reading updates from the local paper.

'Come on, you might as well come up for a few minutes – there will have been a supper left for me.'

She leads him up the vast staircase, to her private rooms. They enter and Mary feels pleased to find the supper indeed waiting. She smiles and feels an appreciation build inside. Dickon moves to sit down in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, where they have sat before, and eaten together.

She moves to sit down with him, then hesitates, wondering if she should......he looks up, a quizzical expression on his face as she pauses. She decides.

'No, not here. I want to.... to show you some other rooms. We can eat in there.'

'Where's _there_?'

'It's a secret.' she smiles. 'Just follow me.'

* * *

She woke the next morning to the same heavy-headed feeling she had become used to. Why was it that it was such a struggle to open her eyes, or even lift her head off the pillow for that matter? She had a suspicion it was at least partly due to the 'medicine' her Uncle gave her.

_'It will help with those terrors you suffer from, my dear. Those which wake you in the night. It will mean,' he says, gesturing to the bandages that encircle her pale wrists 'no more of this.'_

The sleeves of her nightgown had ridden up her arms in the night as she slept, and she could plainly see the long white scars on her forearms. They were nothing to her now, just a grim reminder of a time she could only vaguely recall. Fragmented images. Clutching a letter to her heart, crying out. Her Uncle Archie, falling ill. The feeling of being alone, more alone than ever. Walking around the manor in the night, listening to her own empty footsteps. Wanting it all to be over, of taking a knife and pressing it to the pale flesh of her inner forearms. The red of her blood as it fell upon the sheets of her bed. The screaming of the maid that found her. Her Uncle, Dr Craven's grave face. Then nothing.

Everything beyond that point was hazy.

The day appeared bright outside her window. It was early Autumn, and the days were still relatively long. She usually spent most of her days on the moor. It helped distract her from the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her at times – and take her away from her Uncle – Dr Craven, and his new wife.

She walked over to where she had left her discarded dress the day before and picked it up, not noticing how rumpled and dusty it had become after spending all night on the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied a stack of dusty paintings, propped up near a long forgotten easel. All but one were there. Slowly gathering dust, their bright colours slowly fading away. Briefly, an image enters her mind of a young man looking up at her with a serious expression, a paintbrush held in his hand. Then it is gone - just like the young man who painted the picture.

* * *

Dickon enters the room, ducking slightly as he walks through the low doorway.

'What is this place?' he asks, his voice full of wonder.

'It is a secret place – rather like the Secret Garden, except that it is a room – or a series of rooms. I believe they belonged to my Aunt.'

They walk into the room together. Everything is still as it was when she discovered it. The double bed, the chest of drawers, the ivy creeping in through the walls, the dusty stone floor. Except she has now made a few changes. Now there stands an easel in the corner of the room, canvas's stacked nearby. The whole room has a haphazard, very much alive feeling to it, and she wonders if he can feel it, too.

Surreptitiously, she watches him make his way across the floor of the room. He steps lightly, carefully, for someone so tall. He pushes his dark brown hair away from his forehead with his hand and smiles.

'This was your Aunt's room?' Then, grinning with one eyebrow raised 'Does your Uncle know you've taken residence here?'

They sit down together on the bed in the middle of the room.

'Of course he doesn't know.... and I don't think many of the servants know either. They never come up here.'

'Martha would have known.' he adds. 'If she were still here. Nothin' went past her.'

'She would have known I'd do it before the thought even crossed my mind.' She muses. 'How is she keeping, anyway?'

'She's good. Tha' should really go an' visit her some time. She'd like that. Mind you, she's verra busy these days wi' the baby of course.'

They sit in silence for a moment, each lost in their own private thoughts. He is so close to me, she thinks, extremely conscious of how close he is sitting to her. She can feel the distance between them, and wishes that she could feel him next to her. As if he can hear her thoughts, Dickon moves closer to her. She feels his body next to hers, and a tingling passes through her.

'Who is that in those photographs?' he asks suddenly, getting up and going over to the dressing table.

'Oh those. They're of my Uncle, and my Aunt – Lilias.'

The picture shows two young people, very much in love. A young woman, with dark flowing hair, seated on a swing. A man stands behind her, with his arms around her shoulders. Both look as though they have been caught just before laughing.

Dickon shakes his head in disbelief.

'I can scarcely believe it!'

'Nor could I when I first saw these pictures. Colin and I used to pour over them for hours. There are more downstairs, in great photo albums. My Uncle was quite a photographer, in his day.'

'He must have had somethin' to inspire him,' Dickon wonders aloud, picking up another photograph, inspecting it closely. This is another of the two of them, except that this time, Archie and Lilias are sitting side by side, and Archie has his arms about her waist.

She looks up just then, and sees the two of them reflected in the dressing table mirror. She has never seen them together like this before, except in photographs taken when they were younger. An image of two young people stares back at her. Dickon, with his head bent down, his light brown hair falling over his forehead. A coarse cotton work shirt, undone at the top, loosely tucked into his trousers. She stands beside him, clad in a plain blue gown of printed cotton. Both are covered in smudges of mud, and bits of leaves – evidence of their morning spent in the garden. Suddenly, she feels like laughing.

'Oh Dickon! Look at us! What a pair we make!'

He looks up and sees their reflection.

'Eh! Nothin' like those grand pictures of your Aunt and Uncle.' he laughs quietly. 'Quite th' opposite, it would seem.'

She laughs with him, then without knowing how she dares, she moves closer to him and takes his arm and puts it around her waist.

'There we are. Now we're almost exactly as they are in the photograph.'

'Not quite.' he whispers, and she feels him take her arm and place it around his waist. 'That's it. Now we are.'

The moment stretches out. She feels the comforting weight of Dickon's body as he stands next to her, and the feel of his arm about her waist. Yet a feeling begins to rise in her that is stronger than comfort. It makes her feel uneasy and she laughs nervously and pulls away from him.

'Yes, what a pair we make.' she walks away, her hand twisting nervously on the top buttons on her dress. All of the sudden the room seems too small, too close. She can feel Dickon's presence everywhere. Thoughts of him occupy her mind and banish everything else. Almost in desperation she walks towards her paintings, in an effort to bring the shifting dynamics back to what they were.

'Can I..... can I show you something, Dickon?' she asks, desperately trying to keep her voice from rising. _Just relax_, she tells herself, _it's only Dickon! For goodness sake you've known him almost_ _half your life!_ She bends down and begins sorting through the paintings that are stacked haphazardly in the corner of the room. She wants to show him only her best artwork.

'Of course. Are these yours?'

She nods her head slightly, holding out the canvases for him to look at. Until this moment, she has not told anyone she has begun painting.

He lets out a whistle from between his teeth as he views the paintings, holding them carefully in his hands. She watches him intently. He holds them as though they are something precious. She bites her lip nervously, and wonders what he will think of them.

'These are verra good. All things from nature! An is this -'

'Yes, that's him. The Robin who showed me the way.'

'I had no idea you were this talented.' he shakes his head slowly.

She feels a feeling she can only describe as joy rising up in her. Why it should matter so much that Dickon appreciated her art work she wasn't sure. Yet she was so pleased that he did.

'You were always the talented one.' she chided gently. 'Remember that picture of the Missel Thrush you drew for me, all those years ago?'

'Tha still remembers?' he chuckles. 'Well, I was tryin' t' make an impression on thee.'

'Do you still draw?' she asks, putting her paintings away.

'Nay, I don't seem t' have the time these days.'

This doesn't surprise her. He is kept busy tending his Father's farm, and helping her in the garden when he has time. Still, an idea begins to form in her mind.

'Why don't you come up here once a week and paint – or draw – with me? I could certainly use the company.'

He looks away, pondering the idea. 'Are tha' sure that would be _acceptable_?' he accentuates the last word, and blushes.

She shrugs. 'I don't see why not. All we'll be doing is painting.'

_All you'll be doing is painting_, a voice says in her mind. _Not that there is anything else you would be doing, right?_

'I'll have t' clear it wi' Da.' he says, 'An Mrs Medlock, o' course.' But he is grinning, and she can tell that he is pleased with the idea.

'Besides, now that it is heading further into Autumn, there will not be much else to do, will there? Now, how about we sit down and eat our supper. It's probably gone cold by now.'

* * *

Her eyes slowly moved away from the paintings. She didn't know if she would ever be able to look at them again. She was about to button up the back of her dress, when for the second time in what seemed like one long day, she heard a soft knocking upon her door.

She sighed deeply, wondering why she couldn't just be left alone. It seemed that everyone was always trying to interfere, to tell her what was best for her. The knocking persisted, and she sighed deeply, before crossing the floor to the door and pulling it open.

'What is it this time?' she asked, irritably, to the blushing figure of Agnes who stood outside.

'I'm terribly sorry Miss, but Dr Craven has requested to see you immediately.'

'Can't it wait?' she asked. 'I've only just woken up.'

Agnes blushed, her eyes unintentionally moving up and down the young woman. Mary was suddenly aware of how she must look. Subconsciously she reached to the back of her gown, to where it lay unbuttoned. She hadn't glanced at her appearance for a very long time, but she didn't need to do so to visualise the hair that stood up in tufts from her forehead, to see the dark circles that would have formed underneath her eyes.

'I'm sorry Miss Mary, but he said it was urgent.' Agnes stepped forward tentatively. 'Here Miss, let me help you get ready.'

She hadn't let anyone help her with her dress for a long time, and it felt strange now to feel unfamiliar hands buttoning up her gown, and soothing her hair.

'What does he want?' she asked. 'He doesn't usually ask to see me?'

'I don't know, only that he said he had t' see you right away. So I was sent up t' get you.'

In her mind, she contemplated what her Uncle might want from her. Lately, the only reason he had asked to see her, was so her could ask her about her state of well-being, endless questions which she mostly refused to answer.

'Very well. I only hope it doesn't take that long.'

She allowed Agnes to lead her downstairs, to where her Uncle was waiting.


	4. Chapter 4

**Ok, many apologies, but I had no idea it would be so long between updates! thank you for your patience. I got cursed with a major dose of writer's block, and I'm hoping that it will pass soon. I will probably revisit this chapter at some stage as a result, because I think parts of it could be done better. Anyway, until then, I'll let you be the judge. **

**Many thanks to all of those who have reviewed so far and sent me their comments/suggestions. It has been much appreciated!  
**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Dr Craven, the younger brother of Lord Archibald Craven, reclined in one of the armchairs of what had once been his deceased brother's sitting room.

He was a rather tall man, and he sat lazily in the chair, with one leg slung over the other. His dark hair fell over his forehead, and he pushed it back absent-mindedly every now and again. Every so often he would pause to write in the small notebook that he held.

A fire flickered weakly in the grate, barely taking the autumn chill from the air.

Across from him sat his wife, the former Ida Stevens – now Ida Craven. She sat stiffly in the armchair she occupied, a sour expression upon her haughty face. She was a tall, thin woman, who had met Dr Craven upon his previous placement in London. They had married earlier that year, and she had returned with him to occupy his brother's house.

'William, I simply can't bear this weather.' she complained. 'And being stuck here in this great house when we could be enjoying the end of the season in London!'

Dr Craven sighed deeply. 'My dear, I simply must sort out this business of my niece.' He paused, as though considering her wounded expression, before continuing slowly. ' I do recall telling you that it may take some time.'

'Well, the sooner the better, in my opinion.' She said with annoyance. 'Lord knows, I don't think I could bear another month here! This old house is so creepy – and the staff,' she lowered her voice and leant in towards him 'the staff are downright archaic. Anyone would think we were living back in the middle ages!'

She reached behind her to a worn piece of paper that had been carefully folded. 'But isn't this an interesting surprise?'

Dr Craven raised his eyebrow. 'Indeed it is.'.

'Shall I read it again? Although one can barely read it, given how badly it's written.' Her eyes scanned over the letter with unabashed mirth. 'Oh how amusing it is!'

She cleared her throat and began.

_'My dear Mary._' - oh William, for starters isn't that line a killer – especially knowing who it was that penned this letter!

_'My dear Mary. You have no idea how long I've been thinking about you, dreaming about you, and about being home again.'_

_'_Dreaming about you.' she snorted. 'Of course he would have been. Given what I heard, he would have been more than just '_dreaming_' about her. But it continues, of course.'

'My Dear.' Dr Craven said shortly, 'Please put that letter away for now.'

'Oh William, you're spoiling all my fun.' she pouted.

'You do realise that she must know nothing of this letter. What if the servants were to overhear? Please, pass it here.'

She rolled her eyes, reluctantly folded the letter, and handed it to him.

Dr Craven took it, and tucked it into his journal, before putting it into the pocket of his jacket.

'There now. Now no one shall be none the wiser, hmm?'

A soft knock fell upon the door.

'Ah! It seems we have our guest has arrived. Ida, do be a dear and kindly remove that frown from your face – we can't have her thinking that -'

'Oh fine!' Ida murmured, shaking her head.

'Please, come in!' called out Dr Craven jovially.

He looked up as the door was slowly pushed open. The red haired maid held the door open for the young woman standing behind her.

'Miss Lennox, sir.' Agnes curtsied. A few seconds passed, and the young woman remained in the shadows of the hallway.

'Can't she even enter a room now?' Ida whispered, but was hushed by Dr Craven.

'Come in, come in!' Dr Craven called out.

The young woman moved forward, slowly stepping out of the shadows. As she stepped towards the light of the room, her dishevelled appearance became obvious. For a second he recalled the attractive, spirited young woman she had been – the sickly creature that walked towards him now was merely a pale echo of that girl. This young woman was thin, and moved slowly. Lank, dull hair fell over her forehead, and dark circles lay under her eyes. She wore an old dress that looked almost as faded as she did, that hung loosely on her thin frame. _Slow movements, an effect of the laudanum, no doubt_, he thought, making a mental note. The stronger tincture appeared to be working. He repressed the urge to retrieve his journal and record his observations, instead letting his hand pass over the top of it, as it sat in his pocket.

'My dear child, please have a seat.' he said gently, gesturing to the armchair that lay to his right. 'There is something that we must discuss.'


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you to all the kind people who reviewed the previous chapter - those reviews are what inspire me to keep writing and to find the time to do this! I really wish I could update sooner, but life tends to get in the way. **

**Anyway, here is chapter 5. Another 'flashback' in time. The poems mentioned in this chapter are 'The passionate shepherd to his love' by Christopher Marlowe, and 'Written in early spring' by William Wordsworth.**

**As always, I don't own any of this whatsoever, I'm merely having a bit of fun with the characters. **

**Please review if you are able to - and let me know what you think.**

**xx Elyzia  
**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

"I heard a thousand blended notes,  
While in a grove I sate reclined,  
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts  
Bring sad thoughts to the mind."

She reads the poem to him, her voice rising and falling as he paints. She is aware of nothing except the two of them. They are together, and they are alone. It has been a month since she asked him if he wanted to paint with her. Now it is April, and the late afternoon sunshine filters in through the windows of the large room, casting long shadows on the plaster walls. The sun warms her slightly, and hints at a promise of longer days to come, of the sound of crickets, the smell of freshly mown grass.

She finishes the poem, and lays back on the mattress, feeling her head sink comfortably into the feather pillow. She listens to the sounds that echo around the room, the casual winding of the gramaphone, the music that is drawn from it, and Dickon's movements as he paints – the rasping of his brush against the canvas, the occasional sigh as he steps back and pauses. She raises the book yet again, trying to focus on the words, but instead finding herself watching him out of the corner of her eye.

His back is turned to her, and he stands in front of an easel on which a large canvas is placed. She watches as every now and again he stands back, considering his work. From where she is laying, she can clearly see the head and whiskers of the fox that he has been painting. The realism of the painting never ceases to startle her – she always knew he was talented – from the moment he had given her the rough sketch of the Missel Thrush, when she had heard Martha exclaim it was '_as_ _large as life and twice as natural.'_

His voice breaks through her thoughts and she almost jumps.

'Read me another.' he says. Then, as though he has forgotten himself, adds 'Please.' She can almost hear the smile in his voice.

'Which one shall I read?' she asks. He turns around and she shows him the book, flicking through the numerous pages. She smiles. 'I could just start from the beginning but -' she shrugs. He goes over to her, and she feels acutely aware of his presence as he moves over to where she reclines. She feels suddenly vulnerable, although she isn't sure why, and moves to sit up.

'Eh! And it was your idea to read me some poetry, and there you go choosin' th' biggest book you can find.' he shakes his head in merry amusement. 'Who was that you just read t' me before?'

'William Wordsworth.' she replies.

He leans over and she can feel his arm brush her own, as he reaches for the book she is holding. He slowly flicks through the pages. She loses her grip on the book for a second, and it slips out of her fingers, falling open on the bed.

'It seems t' have decided for us.' he shrugs and smiles.

He walks back to his painting and picks up his brush. She picks the book up, turning to the poem he wishes her to read. Her eyes widen a little at the contents. She pauses for a second, then begins to read in a soft voice:

_'Come live with me and be my love,_

_And we will all the pleasures prove,_

_That hills and valleys, dales and fields,_

_Or woods, or steepy mountains yield._

_And we will sit upon the rocks, _

_And see the shepherds feed their flocks,_

_By shallow rivers, to whose falls,_

_Melodious birds sing madrigals._

_And I will make thee beds of roses,_

_And a thousand fragrant posies,_

_A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, _

_Embroidered of the finest myrtle.'_

She reads on, acutely aware of his movements. He has stopped painting, and now stands at the window, looking out over the moor. She becomes so engrossed in the poem, that she does not notice when he turns towards her, and silently watches.

_The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,_

_For thy delight each May-morning: _

_If these delights thy mind may move,_

_Then live with me and be my Love.'_

She finishes the poem, feeling a blush rise to her cheeks.

'Well, what did you think?' she asks finally, trying to sound confident. Inside, her heart is racing.

He does not speak for a second or two, then finally replies 'It was verra nice..... Reminded me of last summer.'

She does not want him to turn around, does not feel she can look in his eyes. The moment stretches out before them, heavy with things unsaid. Briefly, images of last summer flood her thoughts. In her mind she hears Dickon yelling 'Catch me if you can!' and then she sees him, in her mind's eye, streaking ahead of her across the lawn in their secret garden. She remembers the feel of his warm body when she manages to catch up to him and tag him, the excitement of feeling him next to her, so close, as he wrestles her to the ground, laughing.

'Last summer......' she echoes his spoken thoughts. The implication of what has passed between them, unspoken, looms. She quickly changes the subject.

'Your painting looks like it's coming along nicely.' She eases herself up off the bed, and goes over to him. She moves in as close as she dares.

They stand together for a few minutes as Dickon shows her the details of the fox. She finds herself once more admiring the skill in which he seems to have captured the very essence of the creature. The outside world seems to shrivel and disappear, and as they stand together, it feels as though they are the only two people left in the entire universe.

'Look outside, Dickon.' she whispers, lifting her fingers up to the windowpane, and lightly tracing the glass. 'Can you see the way the sun is shining? how green the trees are? Spring is here.'

'So it is.' he murmurs, moving in closer beside her. 'Tha always did love spring.'

She feels him beside her, and she lightly leans back against him. She hears him sigh, and then if by magic, the feel of his arm gently sliding around her waist. At first she stiffens slightly, barely believing that this is happening, that Dickon is drawing her towards him. She feels the unspoken barriers between them begin to crumble. Words fail her and she turns to face him, bringing her trembling hand up to his side, reciprocating the gesture. She looks into his eyes, the depths that appear infinite. He leans his face down towards hers and she closes her eyes, then she feels his lips against her own, and they are as warm as the first day of summer.

He kisses her softly, slowly at first and she feels the thrill of the feelings that soar through her. She begins to kiss him back, hungrily, not wanting it to end. It is better than watching the golden cascade of sunset, of taking a long cold drink of water in the peak of summer. It is so much more than anything she has ever experienced. She knows that he feels it, too, as he pulls her closer towards him. Both his hands, nestling in the small of her back.

Minutes pass, and the sun begins to set, casting a golden glow on them as they stand by the window. Neither of them notice when the brush he has been holding, falls from his fingers and clatters to the floor, quite forgotten.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hi there, **

**Firstly, I must apologise for the appauling amount of time between updates - a combination of writer's block and being snowed under at work having contributed to this story being rather neglected as of late. However, having finally got some time (and inspiration) here is chapter 6 at last. **

**Let me know your thoughts on this chapter - I am always happy to hear them.**

**xx Elyzia**

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**Chapter 6**

Late afternoon sun filtered in through the dusty window of her bedroom. She sat still on the wooden floor of the room, with her legs pulled up to her chest, resting her head on her knees and listening to her heart beat. Over time, she had come to realize that the medicine Dr Craven gave caused her to feel drowsy, and she would often find herself sleeping for hours at a time after taking it. The sleeping she didn't mind so much - it calmed the voices which tormented her, and caused them to seem less real. It was the disorientation she found unpleasant - the feeling of being out of time and place with the rest of the world - that she had somehow fallen into an alternate state, existing in the twilight world between wakefulness and sleep.

She turned her head once again towards the window, squinting at the dull sunlight which filtered in. She moved her hands towards the light, revealing the worn photograph that was held within them. She brought her fingers up to allow them to pass over the figures captured on the creased paper. The ghost of a smile flickered over her face as she remembered the day the photograph had been taken. It had been the final photograph taken of the three of them, before the two people she had considered most dear to her had left forever. She recalled the day well – It had been one of the hottest days that summer, and they had been sharing a picnic lunch in the Secret Garden. She recalled how her uncle Archie had brought his camera down to the garden, as he had said 'in order to preserve the moment in time.' They had given each other looks of shared humor when his back was turned as he fussed about with his equipment, chuckling at what appeared to be an old man's sentimentality, but had posed for the photograph nevertheless.

'Please, take me out and kill me if I am ever as bothersome as Father', Colin had whispered in Mary's ear, as Archie had taken yet another photograph – this time with the express order that the two boys were to sit behind Mary on the picnic rug, so that the bounty of their lunch could be displayed to it's full potential.

It was this particular picture that she held now. She looked at it closely, wondering if anyone else had ever noticed the way that Dickon was tenderly smiling not at the camera, but down at her. Had anyone ever looked at that photograph closely and guessed what that glance meant? Would anyone have ever discerned that by that point they were more than just childhood friends?

But she knew within her heart that no one would have suspected anything. As far as society was concerned, Dickon was little more than a servant – true, he was a good childhood friend of both her and Colin, but he was born into a different class, and the idea of any kind of relationship developing between the two of them would have been considered absolutely ludicrous by most people she knew – well, almost everyone, anyway.

She sighed, feeling her mind turning against her will, back to her earlier conversation with Dr Craven and his wife. Unbidden, the images began marching into her mind, making her heart pound anxiously and her head throb.

'_My dear, I have become considerably worried over the past few weeks at what one might consider a deterioration in your condition.'_

'_My condition?' she had frowned. _

_Dr Craven had been seated in the sitting room, along with his wife Ida – a thin and haughty woman whom Mary couldn't stand. Dr Craven had glanced at Ida just then, and a look had passed between the two of them which seemed to be heavy with meaning. She had felt herself begin to shake, not understanding what was happening, but feeling dread begin to well up inside her._

'_Yes. I have taken it upon myself to enlist the help of another professional – one who am I am confident will assist me in determining the right course of action to treat you –' He paused, before continuing, as if choosing his words carefully. 'After all, your health is paramount.'_

_She had looked at him carefully, then noticed the shrewd look in the eyes of his wife, Ida. Ida caught her gaze, and looked at her in a queer manner, which sent a shudder through her body. She had turned her gaze from Ida back to Doctor Craven, feeling a sense of uneasiness build._

'_I don't understand. I thought you had been treating me?'_

'_I have, but I regret I may have reached the limit to what I am able to do. I am hoping that Dr Rivers will be able to help determine the appropriate treatment for you at this stage.' He caught her eyes. 'Do not be alarmed, my dear girl. I only have your best interests at heart. Who knows, perhaps a change of scenery is just what you need.'_

The conversation faded from her mind, the voices growing dimmer. She stared once more at the creased and faded picture, closing her eyes a final time at the image of a time that was no more. Tenderly, she brought the picture up to her lips, and allowed them to linger over one figure in particular.

'Goodnight, Dickon.' She whispered. Then, placing the picture back into the box, got up, and eased herself into bed, finally succumbing to sleep.

* * *

She wakened groggily, encased in absolute darkness, after what felt like days rather than mere hours. It took only a few moments for confusion to build. Something didn't feel right.

The mattress felt hard and uncomfortable beneath her, and further investigation revealed that she appeared to be lying on a thin squab on a dusty stone floor in an unknown room. She took a deep breath, the air tasting musty and stale, then sat up, tyring to get her bearings. She felt a cold chill sweep through her body as the only explanation for what could be happening leapt to mind. _Doctor Craven_, she thought desperately, _he's done this to me! Taken me out of my bed and brought me to_ – her thoughts stopped dead. _Where exactly was here, anyway? It seemed to be a cell of some kind. Had he taken her into the cellar underneath Misselthwaite? Had he been afraid that she would try to make her escape before he could organize his 'second opinion'? what was going on?_

Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness, and she could now vaguely make out a dim outline of a door. She stood up slowly, not understanding why her legs ached and her arms felt so stiff. Could Dr Craven had given her a different medication that had allowed her to sleep so deeply that she had failed to notice being moved here, to this _place?_

She made her way towards the light, her fingers feeling the outline of the door, confusion gaining in strength as she realized there didn't seem to be a door handle. Leaning hard against the door, she pushed against it with all her might. It didn't budge. The dizzying panic that had begun when she awoke in this strange place, now threatened to overwhelm her.

'Doctor Craven!' she called, dismayed to find her voice hoarse as though she had not used it for a long time. 'You must let me out!'

She added sharp knocks to the door when no one came, barely noticing the pain that seared through her as she banged her tender hands time and time again.

'Can no one hear me! Agnes! Doctor Craven, anyone!'

She paused, pressing her ear up to the edge of the door. Was it just her imagination, or did she hear voices? Unfamiliar voices, and a distant sound that was possibly someone shouting, and then footsteps.

Was that someone laughing? Yes, she could distinctly make out a low gutteral laugh, which sounded as though it was coming from somewhere further outside the door. Her ears pricked up at the sound of two people talking, another laughing, and then the sound of footsteps. Raising her fists, she pounded upon the door with all her might.

'Help! Help me! I'm in here!'

She pounded desperately, furiously, shouting as she did so. She barely noticed the tears of frustration and fear that began to trickle down her cheeks.

'Someone! Let me out! Let me out!'

She stopped pounding, letting her aching fists drop to her sides, and quickly pressed her ear up to the edge of the door. Was it? Yes it was! She could distinctly hear someone approaching.

'Lord, never a moments rest around here.' a woman's voice grumbled. 'Especially wi' this one, wouldn't you agree....' Mary pressed her ear tighter to the door, but the words were lost as she heard another woman give a low, guttural laugh.

_Where am I?_ She wondered feverishly as she continued to listen. Presently, she heard the sound of footsteps outside the door, and the jingle of keys. She looked up in wonder as a narrow opening in the door slid open, revealing the outline of two dark eyes.

'What is it this time?' a voice hissed. 'I swear, you're worse than all the others. Never a moments rest with you around.'

Somehow she found her voice.

'I need to speak to Doctor Craven at once. There has…. There must have been some mistake. Let me out so I can speak to him.'

'Let you out?!' laughed the voice incredulously. 'Who do you think you are, giving me orders?'

She stepped back in disbelief, as though she had just been struck.

'You can't keep me here. Bring Doctor Craven down to see me.'

'I don't know who you're talking about. Must be another one of your delusions. Go on, get back then and leave off your yelling.'

'You…. You don't know who Doctor Craven is?' she asked in disbelief. 'Then I'm…. I'm not at Misselthwaite?'

'Finally, she begins to see sense. Did you hear that, Betty?' the woman laughed, 'still thinks she's at –' she sneered, the word sliding off her tongue '_Misselthwaite'_.

'Oh goodness! Well who could blame the poor thing.' Came the distant reply.

A feeling of upmost dread washed over her, she felt her knees give way beneath her, and she leant heavily on the door.

'This, this is all a dream, isn't it?' she said softly. 'I'm going to wake up any moment now.'

'Oh I'm afraid not.' she heard a voice chuckle. 'No, this is very real. Very real indeed, _Miss_ Lennox.'

Her stomach felt as though it was filling with ice, and she wondered if she would faint. 'Who....' she shook her head, 'Where.... are we.... where am I?'

'Why, Rainhill House, o' course!' she paused, and then said slowly, as though explaining it to someone incredibly stupid 'A home for mad gentlewomen. You've been here almost six months now.'

Mary felt her legs give way beneath her then, her breath seeming to die within her throat. She slipped down the door, unable to stop her descent, then watched in horror as the slit to the door was closed, leaving darkness to descend once more.


End file.
